earthquake
by sakura aesthetic
Summary: "It's only an earthquake. It's just the ground reconstructing itself. It's just rearranging its pieces and trying to make it work." She searches Natsu's face for any trace of anxiety, melancholy, or rage. Except, she finds none. She only finds his lips, as if pleading for her to stop digging and be satisfied with what he's giving her. "I'll be okay. We'll be okay."


**.**

* * *

 **Earthquake**

* * *

 _there was an earthquake._

 _there was an avalanche of change._

 _we were so afraid,_

 _we cried ourselves a hurricane._

— _sleeping at last —_

* * *

Shaky hands. Uneasy breaths. Spinning room. Turbulent noise.

 _It's only an earthquake._

Her father is downstairs, raising a glass, toasting to his company on the eve of its collapse. Her mother is buried six feet under; it's been ten years since her lungs gave out, a girl's name but a whisper leaving her lips— _Lucy, my dear, sweet girl_. Her sister is nonexistent; sent away on the first train, studying abroad in a city far from the water's edge, somewhere inland.

Lucy misses the ocean. She misses the shore and the waves that lap at her feet, the saltiness of the breeze, the sea foaming and swirling at her ankles. She misses the gentleness of the water and wonders if she'll ever visit Hargeon again.

The newspaper crumples in her hands. She winces; a paper cut lies nestled between the crease of her nail and her finger. In her grasp, the letters become smudged with blood, difficult to decipher but still readable: _Hibiki Earthquake Leaves Japanese Port in Ruin_.

 _It's just the ground reconstructing itself. It's just rearranging its pieces and trying to make it work._

Her father roars from below, her mother is restless, her sister is sleeping (because time zones matter and nothing happens all at once), and Lucy is crying, clapping her hands over her ears, hugging her knees to her chest.

 _It will be over soon. Just wait this one out_.

x

A seismograph: an instrument used to detect the tremors of the earth, what creeps beneath the surface, where the next faultline will curse and wreak havoc.

Lucy believes she is a seismograph. She believes she can pick up the slightest quiver in the ground, feel the magnitude of the shuddering core, determine the sensitivity of the world revolving in circles. _Car Accident on Sakura Street_. _Teen Suicide at Kardia Cathedral_. _Attempted Assassination in Oak Town._ _Drug Bust Gone Bad—Ten Murdered, Seven Injured_. _Blaze in Clover Town Leaves Child Orphaned_.

The headlines keep coming. She wonders if she'd make a good journalist. Writing has, in fact, always been her forte. She's good at telling stories, at constructing fantasies. Everyone at school says so; she won an award for her fictional take on domestic abuse, went to nationals for her debut poem titled _No Lines, No Boundaries—Color Me Blue_ , and has published her first manuscript: a spin-off centered around mansions and how they can feel so incredibly cramped. She's good with words, let's just put it that way.

But this is fake news. No earthquakes have been reported in Magnolia and Lucy speculates this phenomenon; she isn't sure how the media is spinning tales, buying time, holding its breath, but the secrets are evident, ink spilling through the pages. Just read between the lines.

She wonders if she's better suited for meteorology; at least she can predict weather patterns.

x

 _To Mama:_

 _I met a boy today. Every part of me screamed to run the other way and take cover, to find shelter._

 _Only, I didn't._

 _And now, I'm not entirely sure, but I think I've found the eye of the storm._

 _Should I sail into the ocean and tackle the waves? I think I just might, if it means I get to see him again._

 _Love,_ _Lucy_

x

"Oi, Luce."

"Yes, Natsu?"

Solemn onyx eyes meet chocolate brown.

A deep breath, and then, "Do I scare you?"

Nodding, the blonde steals a glance at the floor, unable to withstand his disappointment.

"Lucy." She finds his face again, this time holding his gaze. "I will never hurt you."

He flicks off the lights, the room goes dark. A surprised sound leaves her mouth, only to be silenced by a kiss. With a whine of protest coaxed from between her lips, he relaxes his grip on her arm, but he won't let her breathe, won't let her go.

"Even when your days are darker than this," Natsu whispers, fingers trailing down, lacing with hers, "I will always be there."

She searches for him in the dark, hands brushing against his calloused skin, raking through his salmon locks, cupping his face. She wants—no, _needs_ to remember this: how to properly hold someone without breaking them, without burning herself. Her lips eventually find his and she lets the flames lick her bare, lets the fire ignite in her belly.

"I will never leave you, Lucy."

x

 _June 11, 2013_

 _I wish I'd packed spare flip-flops._

 _Natsu took me to the beach yesterday, for the first time in years._

 _And when he took my hand in his, wading in the water, I couldn't recall the last time I'd been so happy._

 _That is, until a wave swept us away. When we finally came up for air, I realized one of my sandals was missing, only to find it being pulled away, further out of reach._

 _Being the hero he is, Natsu didn't hesitate to dive after it._

 _I watched him from afar, eyes shielded from the sun, and for a moment, I was terrified. Because from a distance, he looked like a boy lost at sea._ My _boy lost at sea._

 _Once he saved my shoe, we rolled up our towels and headed for home._

 _Today, I woke up to this headline:_ Flood at Beach. Drags Town Underwater.

 _Good thing we didn't stay the night._

x

Lucy isn't accustomed to holding on. Whether it's inanimate objects or people, her hands shake too much and her grip is too loose. Physical limitations aside, she simply doesn't like to hold on. For validating and upholding a lifeline goes against her very nature; she cannot afford to get hurt again.

She doesn't know when it happened, when it _first_ happened. All she knows, is now—at approximately five in the afternoon on a Monday, during a scheduled appointment—her knuckles are bone-white, her hands clammy, her grip on Natsu's arm surely cutting off circulation to the rest of his limb. She doesn't care, not now. Not with Porlyusica squeezing her shoulder, telling her it will be okay, assuring her that she will do everything she possibly can, uttering promises Lucy knows she will never be able to keep. But she forces herself to believe the doctor; she smiles and thanks her, but fails to blink the tears away and pretend that, regardless of what happens, Natsu will survive.

She searches Natsu's face for any trace of anxiety, melancholy, or rage. Except, she finds none. She only finds his lips, as if begging her not to dredge further, as if pleading for her to stop digging and be satisfied with what he's giving her, as if asking for her to stop conjuring up a storm. _I'll be okay. We'll be okay._

"It isn't fair," she whimpers, embracing him and burying her face into his neck.

He nuzzles her cheek then plants a kiss on the crown of her head.

"No, it isn't. But three years is all I can ask for."

x

Schedule for October 4, 2015

08:00 — Breakfast

09:30 — Appointment w/ Porlyusica

12:15 — Pick-up Medicine (carbamazepine, ibuprofen, & kaopectate)

14:00 — Lunch _Bar Sun_ (bring emergency kit)

16:45 — Submit Newspaper Article

19:00 — Dinner

20:00 — Research Support Groups

23:30 — Sleep _*_

 _*_ medical note as provided by Porlyusica: _patient will likely suffer from insomnia_

Lucy rereads the note on the bedside table then cries. Porlyusica failed to mention that she'd be losing sleep, too.

x

Submission to _The Crocus Times_ :

 _A Letter to Cancer_ by Lucy Dragneel

You, Sir, are an asshole.

And I hate you.

You have a nasty habit of breaking into people's homes, either by slipping through an open window, or by picking the lock of the front door. I must admit, you're good at what you do. Really good. Your footsteps are quiet and unexpected—you know exactly where to tread, avoiding the creaks in the floorboards, mindful of the neighbors who are on the prowl, out on the neighborhood watch. But you come in the night when the rooms are dark and everyone's tucked into bed; you come when everyone is lost in pleasant dreams, trusting that when they wake, nothing will have changed. They put their worries to sleep and you take advantage. With your greedy hands, you rob people of their valuables, their essentials. A thief: that is what you are.

Because when they are greeted by morning, they sit up in bed and crack their neck, stretch their muscles, and flex their toes. They wake up expecting to find their house intact, not a single thing out of place. But as they strut to the kitchen to make themselves a cup of coffee, they find themselves unable to find their favorite mug. Another day, they may wake to find a book displaced—they were on the last stretch of the story, too. And on one particular afternoon, they may be on their hands and knees, thinking they're losing their mind because they can't find their wedding ring anywhere. Under the bed. In the bathroom cabinet. Atop the vanity. Gone. _Disappeared_.

They quickly realize it's been stolen, slipped off their finger without notice. The initial shock paralyzes their heart, their breath stalling as the room becomes too small, too cramped. And as the backs of their knees slam into the frame of their bed, splitting the skin, they don't feel a thing. Instead, they fall onto the mattress, hands threading between the cotton sheets. With the soft fabric tucked between their fingers, their hands become fists, holding onto everything they can. That's when they start crying, when the tears burn their cheeks, when their throat is torn in half as they scream into the void. Because as they curl into the arms of their pillow, they gaze at the opposite side of the bed through blurry eyes, finding the bed colder than usual; a warmth that would usually comfort them at a time such as this is absent.

Because in the middle of the night, for once, you thought it best to take what could never be replaced. With a knife, you carved a heart from their chest, becoming notorious for murder.

x

"Natsu? Natsu, can you hear me?"

Onyx eyes fixate on her, but they see nothing.

"Natsu," Lucy breathes, her voice shaky, cracking with worry. "Please answer me."

She forces her fingers to intertwine with his, ensnaring him in a net, pinning him down.

"Please, I'm begging you."

On her hands and knees, she crawls closer, hovering over his trembling form crouched in the corner. He flinches at her advance; she peppers him in kisses, wondering if he'll remember how much he loves her signature strawberry taste, hoping he'll instinctively cradle her head and tell her this is all a bad dream. _Make it stop, make it stop. Wake me up, wake me up._

"Wake up, Natsu," she whispers, a single tear falling.

She holds him in every way that she can, eyes meeting eyes, lips devouring lips, hands nestled in hands. Every part of her goes numb when he pushes her away.

And then, the dam breaks, the concrete splitting down the middle. _._

"Who are you?"

 _Hibiki Strikes Again._


End file.
